


burn like dying embers because no one else is here to remember us

by a_mind_at_work (Madame_Marauder)



Series: drips and drabbles [1]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: 5 +1 things, Canonical Character Death, Early a.ham birthday special, F/M, Familiars, Historically plausible rock throwing by a couple of gays, I actually killed John wow that's legit a first, I have a lot of feelings about ch 9, I really love my friends so instead of telling them that, It's Quiet Uptown: pretentious piano edition, Lil bit of meta in ch 14, M/M, Mentions of Gun Violence, Moana., Moana?, Modern AU, Most of this is reincarnation au, Other, Outdated and irrelevant Adele jokes, Reincarnation AU, So thats fun, Surprisingly heterosexual robots, TEN THINGS ONE THING, a n g s t, feat. Alexander trying to be a good father, for M; you know who you are so read your chapter and say something, im projecting on the founding fathers, this is a M E S S im sorry, u know what that means... or do u
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2018-12-08 18:19:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 12,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11652066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madame_Marauder/pseuds/a_mind_at_work
Summary: A bunch of unrelated, song-inspired drabbles that don't merit their own posts.Golden Dandelions: Philip finds a photograph helping sort through the attic.Champion: Inspiration is sometimes found in the strangest of places.Little Boy: Just because you can, doesn't mean you should. He'd hurt too many people that way.Oh, Miss Believer: John has a nightmare.Time to Say Goodbye: It's not 1776 anymore, but it might as well be.More: There's more than this out there, and Alexander knows it.Young Gods: They're just whip-sharp electric lights on a crash course across lifetimes.Sinner(s): Laurens is forced to take a break, with Hamilton not far behind.Alright: Alex is scared, but it'll be alright.





	1. Golden Dandelions

     “Hey, Pops?”

     Alexander sets down his box and glances over. “Hmm?”

     Philip is standing at the top of the stairs, a half-broken cardboard box braced against his hip. “Seam broke, little help here?”

      His dad takes the box from him and smiles as he sees what's written on the side. “Shame, could've let you use it for your stuff,” Alexander replies, waving at the barely-legible scribbled label of ‘Hamilton College Stuff (LAF KEEP THE FUCK OUT)’ on the side.

       “Laf- as in your friend Lafayette?” Philip asks with a raised eyebrow, and Alexander snorts as he turns around.

       “Yeah, that's the one. Who else would it be?”

       Something flutters out of the broken box as Alexander carries it over to another part of the attic- the we-won't-throw-it-out-ever part, along with the ancient trunk from Pip’s mom’s great-whomever, and the photo albums, that stuff- and of course Philip picks it up.

        It's a blurry Polaroid, yellowed a tad with age.  _ Lams5ever  _ is scrawled along the bottom, in a handwriting he doesn't recognize, and hearts are drawn around the two boys in the photo. If he squints, the dark haired one looks like a much younger, much more excitable version of his father, judging by the way he's perched on the other's shoulders and holding what's probably coffee. Same messy ponytail, same fondness for metallic green.

        The other boy is more in focus than his dad, cheerful smile and freckled face practically glowing with happiness to match the dandelion flower crown. He's somehow managing to give a piggyback ride while also holding his own drink, which is in all honesty rather impressive. Then again, Alexander's hand is tangled in a mess of honey curls, which might have been for stability’s sake. “Hey, Pop, who's this?”

         Alexander's jaw drops when he sees the photo. “Oh my god, I didn't think we had any copies of this one! Well, it's John's, obviously, who knows if I ever even got one. But um, yeah, that's my… almost fiance? John Laurens, in the place to be.” He lets out a laugh as he says the name. “Yeah, that's how he would have introduced himself to you. Thought it made him sound cool. It didn't.”

          “Would have?” Philip asks before his brain catches up with his mouth, and his dad's expression falls.

          “He's dead,” Alexander replies, pain seeping into his tone. “Night I was planning to propose, he was shot during a robbery. He- ha, he was shopping for an engagement ring. Two guys came in, got rid of most of the witnesses, ransacked the place. Never actually got to say goodbye, John died almost instantly, or so they said. Tried to protect a couple. Always was stupidly noble.”

          Alexander swipes at his face and takes the photo. “So, yeah. I think you two would have gotten along really well, Pip.”

          Philip just nods, running a hand through his short mop of curls, and stares at the potted dandelion that he's never quite understood. But glancing at the Polaroid in his dad's hands, at the glowing hero-boy with freckles and a flower crown, a boy who loved and laughed and died too soon, he thinks he might just get it now. 


	2. Champion

    “So you were Alexander Hamilton, last time?” the girl asks, and Alex nods a bit hesitantly. Hey, could be a good reaction, could be bad, could be this mildly uncomfortable staring thing that was currently happening, what is this?

     Then she snorts and grins, sticks her hand out and says, “Cool. Wish I was anything near interesting last time. But as far as now goes- well, if I was the type of person who had a childhood hero, it would be you. So, yeah. I'm Thea, by the way.”

      Alexander offers an awkward grin. “Um. That's… weird, but also kind of cool to hear? Like, I was a human disaster. Let's be real, I still  _ am _ a human disaster.”

       “No offense, but that's kind of the point. Like, most of the other influential people at that point came from rich, influential, luxurious backgrounds, with a very few exceptions. One of them being you, who might not have always been the greatest decision maker, but still managed to accomplish incredible things despite it all. And uh, from one broke bastard kid from another, that's damn inspirational. I gotta get to my next class, but it was good to meet you!”

        He nods and smiles. “You too,” he manages past the sudden lump in his throat, and Thea beams and hurries off, her navy blue messenger bag with the phrase _I'll write my way out_ written on it in cream bouncing against her side as she picks up into a a mad dash down the hall, sliding into a classroom before the door shuts.

        There's an odd feeling in Alexander's chest as he turns to go to his own class, something caught in-between floating and falling. It wasn't something he'd ever expected to hear.  _ If I was the type of person who had a childhood hero, it would be you _ , she had said.  _ Damn inspirational _ .

       And there's a strange soaring feeling those words gave him, but yet he couldn't quite shake the feeling that he didn't deserve to be anyone's hero. He hadn't done much of anything hero-worthy as Hamilton, surely. He hadn't lead any armies or countries, had barely influenced a political party and fucked up so many times that he couldn't count them all.

_Still managed to accomplish incredible things despite it all_ , rings though his head, and Alexander finally processes the Economics and English textbooks Thea had been holding. And so he might not have been anyone amazing, but he had had his moments, had had his successes alongside his failures. And maybe that was enough. 


	3. Little Boy

     Alexander was tired. So, so, tired.

     His was a weight unique to him and him alone, and he had to carry it. It was his responsibility, his burden, his baggage that he had to deal with, and it wasn't fair to unload his troubles on anyone else, wasn't fair to drag anyone else down with him.

     But carrying it all gets _exhausting_ sometimes, when his fears and his memories and his reminders all go whirling around in his mind like a hurricane, and he's just so _heavy_. And this school, this town… it's too close for comfort.

      He takes a deep breath, digs his fingernails into his palm, and keeps walking, only to have to halt suddenly as a redheaded boy dashes across his path, laughing as he darts over to the shitty little playground, notebook in hand. “Come on, AJ!”

       Another boy rolls his eyes but runs after him, almost bumping into Alexander as he passes. “Al, if you manage to fall off the top of that again-”

       “I'm fine,” the redhead insists as he scales the play equipment. “Now come on, we gotta start our game again!”

       AJ laughs and climbs up beside his friend. “Alright. Where were we- after we wrote our law of the land? And we're trying to convince everyone else to use it?”

       Their voices fade behind him as Alexander continues onwards, hands clenched around his cheap travel mug. It didn't mean a thing, the little boys who wrote constitutions and convinced others to use them. He was just worn too thin, too tired, too stressed about starting college next year, he tells himself.

       But a little voice in his head frowns as he slips into the house, and asks why he only writes what he needs to anymore, why he never _writes_ except for his college applications. He mentally laughs at it and pulls up the memories of all the holes he dug himself with naught but a pen.

        The piping voice is as stubborn as the rest of him, though, and pulls forwards all the times he'd written his way out. Offers common sense and a possibility that the others were back too, even if they hadn't quite met yet.

       Alexander shoves back with burning letters and tears and blood, only to be met with roaring laughter and smiles and soaring pride and heartfelt congratulations.

      We dreamed a dream, he remembers, and his resolve cracks a bit. Oh, his picking up a pen could only end in pain down the line. But until then, it felt so _good_ to be able to _write_. Words were his oldest friend and closest ally and most passionate lover, one that he had hidden away from. Who in their right mind would give a madman a sword, or him a pen?

      And there were times when he'd itched to _write_ for once, to show the world just what he could do. Fix things with his words, craft another beautiful thing out of letters and phrases, build a palace from paragraphs. He was better than this, he was better, he used to be better. At everything.

      But as a hurricane brought destruction, so did Alexander's _writing_ . Not his technically-perfect bright writing, but his passionate, wild, fierce, blazing _writing_. The kind that was hidden until it came time to apply to colleges.

       His mom hands him an envelope embossed with the seal of ~~King's College~~ Columbia University, and he rips it open with too-shaking hands. He skims the page until his eyes land on the phrase ‘you have been accepted.’

 

      After dinner, Alexander finds himself staring at the bland cream ceiling of his room, and his hand aches for a pencil and paper. He complains at it as he tries to resent the words ready to flow from him. But he can't, he never could, and keeping them in physically pains him sometimes.

      It's dangerous, he tells himself half-heartedly. But the piping little voice that he's ignored for centuries points out that he's off to college, and there's nobody who needs protecting there, nobody his words could accidentally wound. And he needn't publish whatever he writes. How would he, anyway?

      He scrambles for an argument to patch his dam, and the words _promise me_ slam into him like a freight train to the chest. His fingers scrabble against the sheets as he bolts upright, and his gaze lands on the spare notebook resting on the dresser. With a sigh, he swings his legs off the bed and grabs it, hesitating before opening his pencil case.

      Alexander Hamilton picks up a pen. 


	4. Oh, Miss Believer

    John lets out a soft whine from his bed across their room, and Alexander glances up. His boyfriend's asleep, though there are tears working their way down his cheeks and his shoulders are trembling. Alexander sighs and gazes over at him.

    The trouble is, they're both stubborn creatures, standing on one leg called honor and another named pride. Alexander will admit to at least himself that there's probably some trauma behind his just-in-case, roommates-can't-touch-any shelf in the pantry filled with nonperishables. But John? Pigs would fly before he would own up to why he hated the cold so much.

     Not that much of an explanation is needed- Alexander was at the same Valley Forge as the other, and he bears scars from their past life as surely as John does. Thing is, he will admit that, as much as he tries to keep it under wraps.  _ Alexander _ will quietly accept subtle reassurances, because he's learned his lesson about refusing help, and will mostly just not make a big deal of it.  _ John _ will snap at you and insist he's fine, right up until he eventually breaks down in your arms after one nightmare too many.

      And it's times like these that Alexander really feels the extra twenty-odd years that he had of life experience last time, the various trials and tribulations that he had. Parenting, to be specific. God, if he and John really are as close in temperament as people say, he pities them all.

      So yet again, the mother-hen tendencies of his are at odds with the logical course of action as well as with the likely outcome of the logical step; waking up John and causing at least a minor argument.

      He stares distantly, his gaze caught somewhere between his boyfriend's form and empty space. Alexander swears that both times, John's mind had hurt him more than any bullet, bayonet, illness or hunger ever had. He'd exclude the killing bullet from that list, except that he's almost 85% sure that John had intended to die, had been at least subconsciously suicidal.

      John curls in on himself more tightly and whimpers again in his sleep, and Alexander's concern wins out over his predicted outcome. He swings his legs off of his bed and stands, letting his headrush fade before pulling an extra blanket from the closet and laying it over John's faintly trembling form.

      His boyfriend lets out a shaking breath, and Alexander pauses, waiting to see if he's waking up. But no, no, John is still very much asleep, and so he tests his hands against his own upper arm to see if they're cold.

      Alexander decides his hands are definitely warm enough, and sits on the edge of the other's bed, brushing hair out of his eyes. And he might never be able to talk this over while awake, but he can at least do one thing to try and sooth him.

      He starts humming, low and gentle, and John presses against his leg. A quick glance guarantees that his laptop is charging, and Alexander relaxes back against the headboard, running his fingers through John's hair. 


	5. Time to Say Goodbye

     George really,  _ really _ wanted to get drunk.

     Not calm, romantic, with-the-wife drunk. Not wild, exciting, party-with-the-guys drunk. More of that-time-Alexander-showed-up-to-Burr’s-after-Laurens-died drunk. That's about accurate, he thinks.

     See, everything he had ever worked for was crumbling around him. His country, its ideals, its attitudes- it was all rapidly turning to dust in his hands. Except it wasn't in his hands, it hasn't been in his hands for two centuries. 

     The newspeople on the screen stare at the report that they've just been handed, and the lady on the left’s eye twitches. And then the guy in the middle announces the current president’s 17 day vacation, and George resists the urge to throw the remote at the TV. 

     God knows things had been rough in his presidency, but at least there weren't any scandals of him and his family committing  _ treason _ . How the fuck did this guy end up as president? Oh, yes, an outdated system meant for his era, not the modern one.

     Some irritating commercial for soft drinks pops up on screen, and George pushes the off button with more force than is strictly needed, and makes a mental note to scream into the pillow later.

      He just wanted to have a nice, peaceful life in the country that he'd helped found, was that so wrong? Just a calm, happy, relaxing life without any major world powers bearing down on him, vine and fig trees and all that. Honestly, was that too much to ask?

       But now that peace was slowly but surely shattering in the face of this administration, and he was half-ready to agree with Laurens’s suggestion about just starting another revolution. George had never sought out responsibility, never wanted it, and yet.

       Here he is.

       Sitting in his living room, tears of frustration pooling in his eyes, because yet again he has no control over his government, much less over who might live or die at their hand. It's 1776 all over again, but with such worse stakes for everyone that rebellion isn't an option.

       And he has to sit and look at the government and go, “I helped make this, I helped let this happen.”

       George sometimes wonders if Jefferson and the others feel the same way, if they're back. Except that he hasn't found any of them, except for Laurens and Alexander. 

       He wonders at his luck at finding his wife and pseudo-son again, and doubts that he'll ever find the rest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a cryptid that thrives off of comments and kudos, validate my life choices to spend my time doing this.
> 
> Also, stop by my tumblr @discount-satan.


	6. More

    He's counted the steps from one end of his town to the other.

    It's two hundred steps from where he lives down to the docks, walking quickly, two hundred steps to the ships with their expensive goods and the sailors with their stories of the sea and her travelers.

    “Alexander! Good to see that you're here early, son, we have lots to do today!”

    It's twenty-three hurried steps from his desk down to the docks, to the merchants he knows by name and the captains who sometimes are willing to spare a tale for the scrappy orphan clerk.

    He can tell where along the path he is from the salt in the breeze, the cracks in the worn road, crushed grass along the trees, the light glinting off the ocean and the curve of the ground down towards the shore. He's walked the same route hundreds of times before.

    But there's more for him, he knows it. There has to be more than eking out a life in the sand and the dirt and the ink that stains his hands, and shirt, and ends up in his hair when he rakes his fingers through the tangles.

    And someday he'll head across the sea and prove just who he can be but until then he has to tolerate- “Alexander, slow down!” 

     Yet again, he's in somebody's way as they go about their day, dragging it by like the one before. They do the same thing every day, they work, they sleep, they eat, they tell him- “Alexander, calm down!”

     He knows he's gossip fodder- “He stares at the sky, sits and reads on the beach, mumbles all the names of the philosophers and poets. He has one foot here, another on some distant path, he grew up too fast- but he ignores it.

     One day he'll be brave and make his escape, he'll go and find more, no matter how many people around him say, “Alexander, just stop.” “Alexander, dream small.” “Alexander, you'll drown.” 

     But they can't drown out the call from across the sea, the siren song tugging on his soul. Seventeen years ago, his mother hopped across the sea. Seventeen years ago, she found her destiny, she made her story.

      He knows his story could be extraordinary, if only he could go and find his ‘more’. He knows his story won't end with him here on St. Croix, barely living, dirt poor. And nobody, _nobody_ , on this sad little island knows how far he'll go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexander knows the way :^)
> 
> Also next part of the Believer 'verse has been delayed a bit because SOMEONE decided to drop a new song I had to add. >:^/


	7. and just below my skin there lies a storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not quite a songfic this time, I'm afraid.

    She reads, and she wants to scream, to throw herself against a wall and beat her hands bloody and raw against it. 

    She reads on, and feels her soul whip up into a frenzied storm, feels her breath stutter-gasp-heave, her stomach turn and her emotions churn.

    She reads what this man has wrought, and hates him for it.

    She reads, and cannot place blame on the narrator, nor the lover. But she sees what this truly terrible human being has done, and rage bubbles in her chest, anger seething just below her skin.

    She reads, and her heart burns and blazes in her chest.

    But the fire cannot be left to spread.

    Once again, she is helpless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a fun question for you- is this Eliza's reaction to the Reynolds Pamphlet, or is this my reaction to my best friend's homophobic dad? I'll let you folks make that particular call.


	8. tie us close together and tell me that you love me as our wings shed off in tandem and we plummet to the sea

    He is a writer; he picks apart and reweaves the beautiful webs of emotion and interplaying interests and ambition that tie society together for a living. He earns his bread finding a way through the tangle of interwoven motives and greed and generosity that make up the fabric of the world, and yet this is a web he cannot comprehend.

    Life is a tangle of cause and effect, reactions forming threads to link together people and places, building the great network that every person has- x meeting y at z, y having trait a that x finds endearing,  and y sharing interest b that causes a conversation.

    Rachel has sex with James, causing her to become pregnant, causing her to give birth to a boy. James has a cousin he is close to, so the boy is named Alexander. Alexander is good at finding the web connecting people, places, and actions, so he becomes a journalist.

    Simple as that.

    But what baffles Alexander is when things do not have any direct cause, no one certain effect. A chain reaction, multiple outcomes- oh, yes, those he can handle. But everything on earth has a price, and it was always odd when he couldn't figure out what that price was.

    His friends, who he was quite unreasonably attached to, were a perfect example.

    Alexander is damaged; his childhood of being bullied and his teen years of being shamed for being a short, angry, bisexual Latino have left him hypersensitive to insults and paranoid about his reputation. His family's shaky financial standing- or lack thereof, at some points- have left him good with money, but seeming rather strange to his now-peers for old habits that have a hard time dying.

    His web crumbles and reforms more tenuously as old friends and mentors and family members die or lose contact, and newer, less solid connections get made. Alexander is not meant to have a firm, stable web like some people, and that's something he accepted as a child, crying in a too-cold embrace.

    But then his friends came along, and rooted themselves firmly in his life. Angelica and Peggy are somewhere between friends and sisters, Eliza and John his lovers, Lafayette and Hercules more like brothers to him than his blood related one.

     And despite the constant overreactions, the perpetual irritation at the world and its inhabitants, the weirdness and the workaholic tendencies… they're still there for him. With him. Calming him down after some asshole insulted his family, dragging him away from his work when he's not slept or eaten for too long.

     For someone who prides himself on being able to see the bigger picture, able to find the threads weaving together human nature and logical reasoning, he doesn't particularly like the fact that he doesn't get it at all.

     John, unconfident but incredibly talented John, was the light of his life, an amazing artist and still going strong despite everything.

     Eliza, the kindest and most sympathetic person he's ever known, astonishes him daily with her ability to see the good in people and stay positive even when everything’s gone to shit.

     Lafayette, loud and sarcastic and unapologetically himself, is so amazingly clever and confident in himself that you can't help but be buoyed into positivity around him.

     Hercules, tall and strong but so kind on the inside, the dad friend of them all, always there to help or at least be a sympathetic ear to them despite any of his own problems.

     Peggy, with her randomness and non-sequitur humor, her utterly unpredictable spamming of the groupchat, a little overwhelming at times, but overwhelmingly a great friend.

     And Angelica, biting wit and sarcasm that sometimes gets a bit too sharp, but almost always the smartest in the room, and fiercely protective of all her friends and her sisters.

     But then there's Alexander- angry, bitter Alexander with a hair-trigger temper. Panicked, workaholic Alexander who flings himself into his work. Melancholy, jaded Alexander who can ruin anyone's day. Mediocre, useless Alexander, who can't even measure up to the standards he sets on himself, much less those that others must set.

     He can't understand how his web formed. But he's not exactly complaining that it did. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im gay and projecting and I really love my friends


	9. father of icarus, and son of daedalus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> purposeful lowercase.

    he is icarus.

    he knows he is going to burn. one day his wings made from dreams and desperation are going to flake and flutter into ash and leave him to fall, let him plummet back to the depths he fought his way put of tooth, nail, and feather. he is an icarus, and he will fall.

    someday he will feel his wings give way and hurtle to the ground, ripped-ruined ambitions and hopes slicing into him and making him bleed sea-dark ink and wine-red blood, streaming down his back and pooling around him in the rubble where he will land.

     still he flies to the sun, closer everyday, but cannot force himself to turn away from the gold-glittering goal. it shines like warmth-bringing campfires and laughing with old friends, gleams like the coins he never had, glows as lamplight off a wedding ring and morning light off metal-rimmed glasses.

     he knows he is going to burn; he must burn, like his mother before him and her father before her, stars soaring and plummeting back to the beginning of the ages when prophets roamed the earth and pharaohs ruled the desert lands. he is a hamilton, and he will fall.

     someday his children, too, will feel wings that had carried them oh-so far give way, and they will fall to where they began, dreams and goals drawing wine-red blood and who-knows-what that fueled their failed ambitions. but he has flown as high as he might, so that his sons and daughters have so much less farther to fall.

     still he flies on to give them sturdier wings, to let them build their flying mechanisms from stronger things than scraps of discarded paper and stolen, nearly-used pencils. their wings will be made from solid piano keys and thick law books, more reliable and more reassuring than his wings ever were.

    he knows he is going to burn; he must burn, as will all he touches, as it has since the day he was born to an unmarried couple already impoverished. his children will burn, too; they have his spark inside them, some yet unlit, others already blazing. they are hamiltons, and they will fall.

 

     but he is also daedalus **,** and he is sorry he gave them his doomed wings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhhhhh i have a lot of feelings about this someone justify its existence  
> Leave some kudos and comments if u enjoyed pls!!!!!!! Im a pitiful potato who needs validation!!!!!
> 
>  
> 
> scream with me about dead revolutionaries on tumblr: discount-satan


	10. breathe the time alive

    They always end up here, it seems. Standing on a cliff face, and every time it's the highest fall he'll ever grace.

     Seeing it on the boat over, it scares him half to death.

     Six times his son had made this same trip; twice it was over the same dispute as it was in Alexander’s first life. His fault.

     Ten, now eleven times he himself has made this trip. Ten, soon to be eleven times he has fired in the air.

     His life might be relived over and over again, but he still has his morals, his opinions and his swirling mind. They are all he will have, again, soon enough.

     Eleven times he has ridden out a hurricane. Eleven times he has survived a burning ship, and made it to New York. Eleven times he has endured Valley Forge. Eleven times he has captured Redoubt 10. Eleven times he has passed a financial plan.

      He has honed the methods for each into an art, knowing exactly when and how to make his move. And when to not.

      Twice, he has had an affair with Maria Reynolds. Three times, he has published a pamphlet slamming John Adams. But no matter how he changes his interactions with Burr, they still end here. At Weehawken. Staring down his first friend in America, his last enemy.

      Someone counts off their paces- Van Ness? Pendleton? He's forgotten who it is, this time- and he scowls as time seems to slow.

_ One _ \- he thought he'd done it right this time, had convinced his darling Laurens to not do anything stupid at Combahee River, had kept his son from dueling, had held his tongue and pen in check and saved him and his family plenty of pain.

_ Two _ \- there wasn't even anything to look forward to, going back. For the third or fourth time, Laurens’s smiling face couldn't even draw him into a willingness to go back. Because Laurens was still asleep, in the guest bedroom that all the children knew was really just Uncle John’s room, and Alexander muffles the sob aching in his chest.

_ Three _ \- Eliza wouldn't forgive him if he shot Burr, nor would he ever forgive himself.

_ Four- _ maybe this time would be different, maybe Burr would only aim to wound instead of kill. The grievances were slighter, so there was still a chance, though oh-so slight.

_ Five _ \- if he was to die, and rewind again, he resolves, then he would do his best to replicate this life. It had been a good one, happy and full of those he loved.

_ Six _ \- when he first rewound, he had taken it as a vivid, ridiculous dream. But then the hurricane came, and he saw it for what it was; a chance to do things over. And over. And over and over and over until god knows when.

_ Seven _ \- perhaps this time he would spend more time with his brother. James always seemed to die young, far away from anything Alexander can influence. 

_ Eight _ \- oh, let him not have to face his children again. He always misses them terribly, and closing his eyes to their tearstained image made it worse every time.

_ Nine _ \- if he has to see his Laurens and his Betsey at his bedside again, he doesn't know how he'll handle it. John's empathetic panic, Eliza’s tearful fear… well, he'll face it when he has to.

_ Ten _ \- fine, fine, here we go again-

    Alexander whirls on his heel at  _ fire _ , slicing his arm up high and far off to the side, making it painfully obvious his shot will go wide on purpose, and waits for the smoke from his flintlock to clear, and the slamming, shattering pain in un, deux, trois-

    The smoke eddies and swirls, drifting in and out of lacy patterns in the wind. Un… un…

    He sees the early dawn light glint off of something, something slowly raising above Burr’s head, and he barely dares breathe. This wasn't possible. His lot hasn't changed this much, surely.  _ Surely _ .

     But the smoke clears, and Burr stands opposite him, pistol pointed towards the sky, unfired.

     Alexander stands there, his posture fierce and unrepentant, his own gun unwaveringly still high and wide, and takes a ragged gasp. And another. And another, and he can breathe, there's no bullet between his ribs, Burr hasn't fired.

     There's a tense silence, and Burr’s arm recoils as he fires into the air.

 

     Eliza clutches at him tightly when he hugs her, the pistols safely back with John Church and the dispute formally resolved, and his Laurens twines their fingers together, and he feels something in his chest give way.

     Alexander tugs them into the other room, where the children aren't, and fixes the both of his lovers with a searching look. “How many times?”

     John glances to Eliza, his lips half-parted, and swallows anxiously. “Four. For me, at least.”

     “This is my third,” Eliza adds quietly.

     He laughs, low and hoarse, and takes each of their hands in his.

     “Alexander?” John asks, concern seeping into his voice. “How many-”

     “Eleven,” tears its way from Alexander’s throat, bitter but tinged with the relief that Eliza has only seen him die twice, John at most three times. “Eleven lives, eleven duels, ten wounds.”

     His Betsey slams into his chest, and he pulls her close, one hand tangled in her flowing black hair and the other around her waist. His dearest Laurens loops his arms around them both, and Alexander lays his head on the other man’s shoulder, and they each pretend not to feel the others’ tears fall.

     They end collapsed on a couch, Eliza still clinging to Alexander’s chest, John holding Alexander’s hand in his own, when the taller man takes a shaky breath and says, “And so what do we do now?”

     Alexander turns to him, eyes lit with some curious realization, and says, “We live.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (VAGUELY based off ten things one thing, but not enough for the title)
> 
> I tried to make it happy??????
> 
> Also I'm screaming endlessly bc one of my favorite authors left kudos and comments on Beli3ver and just hold on a moment as I screech into my pillow again
> 
> tumblr: discount-satan


	11. Young God

   He gasps a little into her mouth and pulls away, those violet eyes of his reflecting all the shades of the neon sign behind her, pink and teal swirling together in his gaze.

   “You'll hurt yourself,” he warns her as her fingernails scrape along his scalp, and she twists her hand in his long, greasy hair.

    She sets their foreheads together and smiles against his lips. “Honey, I'm as much of a hurricane as you. You don't see it, but it's right there.”

    Her lover tilts her chin up and catches her in a quick kiss. “Don't get cut on my edges, you know I'm broken glass and words are my weapons. I've hurt-”

    “I told you, we're gonna be legends,” she interrupts. “Just watch me fly alongside you. I'm not afraid to burn.”

    “You always did like to play with fire,” he murmurs against her lips, and she smirks, presses her lips against his, bites his lip playfully.

    She's sharper now, weary and cracked like he is. And he's not changed much at all, lion-flaming-Icarus that he is, and their broken pieces fit together so much better now. They're only missing one shattered color in their mosaic of green and blue, waiting to find that honey gold to fuse them all together.

    Sometimes things need to crack and break to make a whole.

    Sometimes people only click on the second try.

    But for now they're just young gods, glorying in the fall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look its an actual songfic
> 
> Also my procrastinating-writing-for-main-verses au that im never gonna finish may or may not be based off a Barbie movie... i have regrets guys
> 
> My tumblr: discount-satan


	12. coyotes howl just as loud as wolves, but with more pain behind their notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plenty of angst about 'implied' food issues, so be warned.

   He has always been alone, always had very few people to rely on. It is him, and his dæmon, and no-one else. Alexander. Liberty. Them and them alone.

   The islanders had been afraid of Liberty when she first manifested, starved and growling and pacing in front of her boy protectively as the bullies scrambled away hastily. The mayor's son had dropped the stolen book and fled, his followers on his heels, and the fierce coyote had let her hackles drop, gingerly taking the book in her mouth and padding back to Alexander with it.

    The others learned quickly that the sharp-witted bastard now had a bite as sharp as his bark.

    It was only fitting that their mark- because it was _their_ mark, they were too close for the one to be much stronger than the other, though Alexander still had control- sat on their wrist, only centimeters from the fount of words that got them out of their tiny little village and on to the rest of their lives.

     Alexander and Liberty go far in the year or two between leaving Christiansted and arriving at General Washington’s tent, and dream of going farther. And thus the pair find their young, scrappy, hungry selves seated at the shared desk, in a cramped tent, trading shitty jokes with the other aides-de-camp to stave off the too-familiar ache of an empty stomach.

     In such circumstances, dæmons tend to be kept in their marks; in physical forms, they need sustenance just as any other would, and that is not something the army has much of at all. But in down time, the aides are allowed to let their bondmates roam free if they're willing to feel the added hunger pains.

     Liberty is a crowd favorite, and Alexander has years of practice.

     So when John Laurens walks through the door, she has the chance to look up from Meade’s lap and then bound over to sniff at him curiously.

      _He smells like you,_ she tells Alexander, and he barely stops her from asking for a pat from the volunteer stranger he's not even been introduced to.

      A small turtle is peering at him from the man’s shoulder, though, and he smiles as they shake hands.

 

     John Laurens has a snapping turtle called Freedom that sits on his shoulder and is his occasional paperweight. The small dæmon is quick-tempered and even faster to duck inside a pocket in the cold, though he laughs at how Liberty complains despite her fur.

     A new arrival at nearly the same time as Laurens is the Marquis de Lafayette, a brilliant young Frenchman with a leopard slinking along at his heels. Liberty adores Glory, despite initial fears, and the two can constantly be found napping together at their bondmates’ feet as the two men work.

     None of the three understand why Washington forbids the aides from partaking in the horse meat the foot soldiers wish they were being subtle about having until they meet his mighty charger, Duty.

 

     Elizabeth Schuyler has a dove seated on her shoulder as she swirls around the ballroom with him, and as they dance she tells Alexander that the bird’s name is Loyalty. Her elder sister has a hawk called Desire,and the younger has a hummingbird that carries the title of Remembrance.

    The beautiful girl asks him who his dæmon is, and quite suddenly the short-lived fantasy of belonging here comes crashing down around him. “She's not quite one I'd have at my side at a ball, shall we say,” Alexander replies, eyes stuck to the ground.

    “Whyever not? Is she a wolf, perhaps? A lion?”

    She's close, but both of those are noble dæmons to have, proud and strong and principled. No wolf or lion bondmate would ever steal bread from a market stall to feed their starving human, no wolf or lion would lick clean wounds from taking on enemies too strong.

     Alexander shrugs noncommittally. “Not quite, nothing so noble. Just my Liberty.”

     “What is she? I don't mean to pry,” -she's prying- “but I only ever see mine and my sisters’ companions. There's the balcony if you want somewhere less crowded."

      And she's a Schuyler, he would have had no chance anyway, so he lets her guide them to the marble balcony and reluctantly lets Liberty spring from his forearm. She sniffs the air and immediately fixes him with a frustrated look. _Alexander, I'm hungry._

_Later,_ he tells her, and anxiously glances to gauge Elizabeth's reaction.

       _I'm hungry now, stupid,_ she says, more fond than frustrated, but there's a fair helping of irritation in her voice. _And so are you, for that matter. I can smell the food, and feel your empty stomach._

He tries and fails not to roll his eyes. _I didn't let you out to be mothered, Lib. Be nice to the pretty lady._

      Liberty tilts her head knowingly, and he pats her coarse fur. She _is_ concerningly thin, and she _is_ a reflection of him, but he shakes his head at the thought as the Schuyler daughter lets his dæmon sniff her hand instead of shrieking. Eliza smiles over at him, and he finds himself smiling back.

 

       His son has a wolf named Boldness.

       Maria Reynolds has a fox called Irony.

       Thomas Jefferson has a peacock known as Justification, and James Madison has one called Knowledge.

       They're all fitting.

       But Aaron Burr? Aaron Burr has a crow called Impatience.

       Alexander chokes on a laugh filled with burbles of his own blood as Liberty crouches at his side and pleads with him to stay alive. He doesn't listen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. That happened. 
> 
> I might play around more with this concept, but who knows? Watching 20 minutes of a movie while half asleep is great for ideas, I guess.
> 
> My Tumblr: discount-satan
> 
> Kudos and comments if you enjoyed, please! I live for them!


	13. (twenty) Four Walls

1.

    It's cramped, and it's cheap, and it's not in the best shape since James and Mama are busy with the store all day and Alex spends his time reading or writing instead of being helpful (he regrets that later, but also doesn't), but nevertheless it is home.

    The massive split down the third floorboard from the left is as familiar to him as his own name, the crevice (James likes that word nearly as much as his brother) he lost a button in under the bed, the inkstain on the windowsill from when he'd fallen asleep with a pen in hand- they make up Alex’s world, or at least the center of it.

    And so it might not be much, but it's theirs, and it's home.

 

2.

    He knows he doesn't belong here. Ned knows he doesn't belong here. Mr. Stevens knows he doesn't belong here. The housekeeper knows he doesn't belong here.

    That doesn't mean Alexander isn't grateful to be here, of course. He is, after Mama died and Lavien took everything (except for the ribbon in his hair, that had been part of her favorite necklace, but nobody needs to know that) from him and James. But the bastard orphan knows he ought not be here, this rich family's charity case, a favor to a beloved son.

     And so it might be for Ned, but it's not Alexander's home.

 

3.

    It is an aching relief Hamilton can feel in his bones when Mulligan agrees to let him board with him. Fending for himself isn't exactly a new concept, but while the possible rewards are higher in America, so are the risks.

    It aches, too, to see the family he's staying with. Mrs. Mulligan- or Beth, as she would prefer to be called- is obviously deeply in love with her husband, and the feeling is blatantly returned. Their sons are as well-behaved as you could ask of a ten-year-old and an eight-year-old, and Mulligan’s own brother is a frequent visitor. And yet somehow Hamilton finds himself being included, at least on some levels.

    And so it's the closest to a real family he's had in a long time, but it's not home.

 

4.

   The entire camp is cold, and miserable, and wet, and hungry, but the tent is sturdy enough to keep out the worst of the chill, and nearly all the rain and snow, so Hamilton is willing to take it over nothing.

    And sharing the space with his intimate friend doesn't exactly hurt anything. Laurens is a delight to be around, no matter the situation. They have reason to be around each other constantly, with almost no excuses necessary, and no real reason to be anywhere but their tent or the General’s. John scribbles drawings on the canvas in a light pencil, and Alexander stacks books on his trunk, and they lean their muskets against each other.

    And so despite the desperate circumstances, it is oh-so close to being home.

 

5.

    Everything is different from that year or so spent living with Ned, yet somehow everything is just the same. It's like two coats of the same color and pattern, but one wool and the other silk.

    The Pastures being silk, of course. The Schuyler mansion is just _dripping_ with wealth, whereas at the Stevens’ there were only a few hints in the quality of wooden furniture, the fabric of a blanket. He had always known his darling Betsey’s family wasn't exactly lacking money, but this, _this?_ Well, it explains why Alexander's simple and quiet admissions never were understood.

    And so as beautiful and beloved by Eliza it might be, it is her home, not his.

 

1.

    The front hall has a crack in one of the floorboards, and the dining room comes with a beautiful mahogany table and chairs. Upstairs, one of the smaller rooms has a painting of a pond scene with a turtle peeking out of the reeds, and the hall floors are well-worn as if children had run along them many times. Eliza smiles over at him, and he grins back.

     They add bookshelves to most every room, and Eliza finds art to hang around the house. Philip knocks over ink onto the wall beside his father's desk, and his parents pause before laughing and agreeing he deserves to help decorate, too.

     And finally, Alex is home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooo beli3ver might be a bit late from the week-and-a-half schedule this time my muse is not fucking cooperating
> 
> Also; 69 kudos hELL YEAH
> 
> tumblr: discount-satan


	14. you great unfinished symphony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meta, to some extent

    She's dreamt of being here so many times. She's dreamt of the way the blue coat will fall as she whirls and sings and screams, of the way her feet will slide so easily into these shoes, of the way that the words will fall from her lips so perfectly, so naturally.

    The drumbeat is in time with her heart, the melodies so synced with her movements she hardly notices. The green of ambition, of creation, of inspiration- it's in the suit, it's in her eyes, it's in her very soul. This is the role she has longed to play all her life.

    She is no-one. She is everyone. She is one.

    She has no name. She has many names. She is named Hamilton.

    Yet when she finally slips her feet into those shoes, worn and fitted perfectly, the blue coat lands heavy on her shoulders. Her throat is raw as she whirls and sings and screams. Her words are a flood, true and aching as they fall from her lips.

     The drumbeat is her heartbeat. The melodies sweep her along, helpless, dragging her to the inevitable end that she must meet, must meet and accept. She knows this as she pledges not to throw away her shot; she knows it as she breaks vow after vow; she knows it as she throws her shot away.

      Her voice breaks on her final lines, her hand shakes, her eyes water. She is no-one. She is everyone. She is Hamilton.

      She has not learned this lesson. She teaches this lesson. She finally understands this lesson.

      She is Hamilton.

      She is Hamilton.

      She is Hamilton. She is running out of time. She must forge her legacy. She must remember the true legacy she leaves behind. She is running out of time, time's up, wise up, eyes up.

       Tick-tock, friend.

        Legacy.

        What is your legacy?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoooo so my friends and I may or may not have performed the entirety of Hamilton at a xmas party in the basement.
> 
> We had emotions. It was fun.


	15. Sinner(s)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heard the song, had to write it.

    “Having fun disturbing the fish, Laurens?”

    He turns at the voice, his latest throw sinking on its second skip. “I am, actually. Care to join me, Hamilton?”

    Hamilton rolls his eyes, but picks his way down the pebbled shore. “I brought lunch for you.”

    “No, you got the same speech I did, and are too embarrassed to admit it,” Laurens corrects, watching as Hamilton huffs but doesn't deny it as he sets a basket down on a rock that really ought to be classified as a small boulder.

    “So what if I did?” the redhead replies defensively, tucking a stray piece of hair out of his eyes.

    Laurens snorts and turns to skip another stone. “I've got no idea how I managed to get that lecture before you. I'm certainly not the one most inclined to run myself into the ground in the name of paperwork.”

    “He probably thought I was more likely to listen and take a break if you already were,” Hamilton suggests, and Laurens’s rock lasts a whole five skips before sinking.

    “Was he wrong, though?” Laurens retorts, facing him again.

    Hamilton flushes, and they both know the answer to that. “Shut up and eat your damn lunch.”

    He laughs, and Hamilton tries to hide a small smile at the sound. “No need to be so demanding, Hammy. You'll be back to your desk in a few hours.”

    “Fuck off,” Hamilton groans, but his eyes are lit with faint amusement as he shoves a sandwich at Laurens, and he takes it with a grin.

    “Demanding,” he says again, sitting down beside the other, just a little too close for propriety. Hamilton sighs, probably aiming for exasperation but coming off a little closer to exhaustion.

     They've all been running a little ragged in these past couple of weeks- it's summer, which means more battles but thankfully less supply crises, and somehow they're actually losing  _ fewer _ men now than this past winter- but none so much so as Hamilton. The man is a stubborn perfectionist, and willing to go so far above and beyond that it's honestly a little concerning.

     Practically everyone worries about him; the other aides, the General, Mrs. Washington, the list goes on. And, Hamilton being Hamilton, he's rather oblivious to their concern.

     But he's leaning against Laurens’s shoulder, now, and peaceful instead of storming. And Laurens is content to let this moment last, a calm meal by the river in the middle of a war, at least until Hamilton speaks.

    “I just want the war to be over,” the shorter man says quietly. His words are almost lost to the noise of the river, and certainly would have been if he wasn't right there next to Laurens’s ear. “It just… it feel like it's lasted forever.”

    Of course it does. “I know, dear boy,” Laurens replies.  “Barely three years and it feels like a decade.”

    “God,” Hamilton breathes. “It hasn't felt like just three years. It really hasn't.”

    They're both silent for a long moment, before Hamilton shifts to sit up straighter. “What were you doing with the rocks?”

     Laurens snorts, more out of surprise than amusement. “I was skipping stones, Ham. Are you seriously saying you've never skipped stones?”

    “Can't say I have,” Hamilton replies easily. 

    He blinks. “I thought you grew up on an island!”

    “We had sand, my dear Laurens, not pebbles,” the other chides with a soft grin. “No, we didn't skip stones. I can honestly say I don't know how.”

    That gets Laurens to his feet, and he offers Hamilton a hand up. “I suppose I have to teach you, then. Come on!”

    Hamilton rolls his eyes again, but stands, and Laurens picks out a couple of stones and presses one into the other's hand. “Just toss it. Put some force, but don't fling it. And just flick your wrist, and let go.”

    He skips his rock, and it bounces three times. Hamilton tries, and it sinks immediately. “Dammit.”

    “No, no, dear boy,” Laurens corrects, handing him another stone. “Here. Let me guide you?”

     The other smirks, and he steps forward to guide Hamilton’s arm as he throws, one hand overtop his lover’s, the other on the shorter man's waist. Sure enough, the stone skips a solid five or six times. Laurens isn't quite paying attention- Hamilton still, somehow, manages to smell of cinnamon, and he's acutely aware of just how close their faces are.

     And judging by how Hamilton turns his head and smirks, so is he. His breath ghosts over Laurens’s jaw as he turns, and glances back towards the direction of camp. “It'll be an hour or so before we're expected back,” he offers, looping his arms around Laurens’s neck.

    “Or so,” he agrees, and lets his other hand drift to Hamilton’s waist. Hamilton grins. He grins back. Hamilton kisses him. He kisses back.

    They've got some free time. Might as well make the most of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) 
> 
> Fade to black scenes aside, i attempted a fluff
> 
> History lesson time!!!!  
> • Alexander Hamilton was a fuckign Mary Sue; dark red hair, violet eyes  
> • Laurens was a blonde  
> • gwash's other aides/most of Alexander's friends called him 'Ham' 'Hammie' or 'Hammy'  
> • Laurens referred to Ham as his 'dear boy,' making ham the only person to share a ranking with john's LITERAL WIFE, who not only existed but was called his 'dear girl'  
> • Ham, on the other hand, referred to john as his 'dearest Laurens.'  
> • thats gay as hell, coming from someone who is also gay as hell
> 
> My main tumblr: @discount-satan  
> My writing tumblr: @littlelionroar
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!
> 
> (i almost had ham say that he hates sand, because its coarse, rough, and gets everywhere, but i feared retribution, possibly of the supernatural sort. so.)


	16. two (six) one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iiiiiit's part one of the January Birthday Extravaganza
> 
> based on ~historical fact~ 
> 
> tw for general Valley Forge, bc i feel like that's just a good catch-all warning to put out there

     “Ham, why didn't you tell us it's your birthday?” Lafayette chides, flinging an arm around his shoulders. “You should've said something earlier!”

     Meade glances up, eyebrows raised. “You should know this by now, my friend. Hammie never tells people important personal information. Never.”

     Alexander sighs, rolls his eyes, sets his pen aside. “It’s not a big deal. So I'm twenty-one. Celebratory cannonade and parades galore.”

     “You didn't bother telling us it's your _twenty-first birthday?_ ” Tilghman all but yelps, flicking ink off the tip of his pen as he does. It lands on the edge of Meade’s page, who flips off his friend good-naturedly before glancing back over to the conversation.

     Lafayette pats his shoulder sadly. “We would've planned something if we'd known.”

     “Like what?" Alexander asks, not bothering to hide the bite of his tone. They know it's not directed at them.

     And there _is_ a slight, awkward silence, because they're literally a bunch of underpaid secretaries in the middle of a war, in the headquarters of a camp of freezing and starving men, and nobody’s had a decent meal for weeks.

    “We'd have figured something out,” Meade retorts after the few heartbeats of quiet. And Alexander is sure they would have, and it would have been way too much, which is why he didn't exactly tell them. Which means-

    “How did you even find out?”

    The other three exchange a glance, and Tilghman sighs. “We heard from Laurens, who heard from Mulligan, who heard right from you. So.”

    Of course they did. “I swear, Laurens is going to be the death of me,” Alexander mutters. Lafayette’s eye twitches, but the other two both snort. Which is, obviously, when Laurens himself walks in and claims his spot on Alexander’s left.

    “Happy birthday,” he breathes, still breathless from the impossibly frigid cold outside. Alexander huffs.

    “Why didn't you tell us when we still could've planned something?” Tilghman demands, evidently picking right back up in an unfinished discussion. “The morning of, honestly.”

     Laurens shakes his head and smirks. “I have it covered.”

    “With what?” Meade interjects, suddenly interested.

    Inevitably, because this is how Alexander’s life goes, Laurens opens his mouth in the same instant that the general opens the door, and thank god he's not the one scrambling to look like they're being productive instead of gossiping about each other.

    Which they totally weren't. Mostly.

 

    But Laurens catches him in the hallway before they head back to their cabin, pulls him over to the side and to the opposite side of a bookshelf, offering some semblance of privacy. “Here,” he mutters, pulling out a package from underneath his arm. He must have stashed it here- otherwise their friends would've noticed and gotten him to open it in front of them. _He_  would've noticed, their elbows brushing as they were in the cramped office.

    And Alexander takes the package, haphazardly wrapped in cheap brown paper by someone who's painfully obviously unused to having to do these sorts of things themself- so, almost certainly Laurens himself- but who did their best.

    The fact that it's in his hands at all makes his chest ache, because no-one has actually gone through the effort of getting and wrapping a gift for him since he was… eleven, probably, or maybe ten. Either way, he's touched.

    He tugs the string untied, and once released the paper falls away to reveal…

     “Laurens,” he breathes. Gasps. Gapes. There's a heady rush of excitement, but it's dampened by years of experience. “You didn't have to get me anything, are you sure-”

     But his lover arches an eyebrow and pointedly tugs on the lapel of Alexander’s threadbare coat. “I am, considering that your uniform is disintegrating off you. I'm not going to watch you freeze if I can help it.”    

     “What about you, though,” Alexander hears himself ask, even as he curls his fingers in the fabric. It's a heavy wool, good god, and a lovely tinted cream. He doesn't want to _begin_ to imagine how much it would have cost him to buy on his own.

     Laurens lifts the edge of his own coat, revealing a new layer of his own. “I'm set. And it should fit you, I'm sorry if it doesn't, but it _was_ made to my measurements. And- well, can't exactly tell my father why I need two coats for myself with different measurements.”

     Which is why it's meant to be worn as a middle layer, fair enough. He isn't exactly going to complain.

     And he's going to thank him coherently, most certainly, and there are absolutely no tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. Definitely. Absolutely. By all means, no clinging hugs, no repeated and whispered thanks, none at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooooooo so, today's history facts:  
> • Alexander Hamilton turned 21 at Valley Forge, on January 11, 1778  
> • the coat thing is sadly not historically true  
> • however i spent like 3 hrs researching historical pricing and accurate fabrics to try and validate the ~rich kid Laurens gets his bf a rly nice coat~ plotline  
> • this year, the 11th is a.ham's 261st birthday, hence the title  
> • i don't know my own grandparents' birthdays but i know laurens and hams  
> • this is off topic now k thanks bye
> 
> My main tumblr: @discount-satan  
> My writing tumblr: @littlelionroar
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated


	17. terracotta, porcelain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they're????? robots?????? i guess????????????
> 
> (i haven't posted all week, please accept an apology in the form of an abandoned crackfic that's slightly less gay than usual but includes pining Laurens)

    John Laurens has only come to this tiny, abandoned town to salvage forgotten art. A painter lived here once, in one of these houses now reclaimed by the forest, and any works left behind might be enough for him and Mattie to get a real place instead of just renting rooms, constantly traveling, never being able to settle down. This could be it, this could be when her sculptures and his paintings stopped having to mingle with salvaged ones.

    Mattie has wandered off to what looks like a crumbling theater, and he is halfway down the overgrown street when he hears her gasp ring out through the silence bearing down on them, a voice not hers murmur something. “Jack!”

     He's at her side in an instant, in the doorway of the playhouse, and she stares at a wonderfully intricate terracotta sculpture standing a few feet ahead of them. The sculpted man is beautiful, delicately painted with exacting details in every line of his tunic and strand of his hair, and oddly formed joints. If John hadn't already known he preferred men… well, it might have given him a hint or two.

     And then the sculpture  _ moves _ . 

     “Hello, I suppose,” the sculpture says, its- his?- voice deep yet somehow melodic as it flows over the syllables. “You'll forgive me if my voice is harsh; it has been a long time.”

     Mattie steps forward, just slightly, but John stays frozen. “Who are you?” she asks, hushed. He'd have asked the same, though most likely less tactfully. There was a reason she did most of the talking during sales.

    The sculpture blinks, then smiles. “I am A-H, terracotta automaton. But that's just what I was billed as. Call me Alexander.”

    “You- you were built by Washington, weren't you?” John blurts out. “The performers who were popular way back when, then suddenly disappeared. That was you, wasn't it?”

     Alexander lowers his gaze. “George died, then so did his wife. Our… awareness alarmed the public, and we were split apart and sent to masters of art to be models, mostly. I know not what happened to many of the others- but here Eliza and I are.”

     “Awareness?” Mattie jumps on. “Awareness of what?”

     The automaton laughs quietly. “We were not meant to be so… self-aware. Awake.  _ Human _ . But as our many, many roles went on, we became knowledgeable, we understood, we felt. Art is just a reflection of humanity, after all. But once it got out that some of George's written works were from my hand, we were doomed to stop performing. Yet we had already gained our understanding of what it meant to be alive, and we made ourselves so.”

      An odd silence follows his words, but then he shakes his head and looks back up at them. “No matter.”

      John licks his lips anxiously. “If you were here, why was this village abandoned?”

     “Better opportunities were elsewhere for the youth, and the elders were… elder,” Alexander shrugs. It's a remarkably fluid motion, just more proof Washington truly was the greatest in his field. “The young left, the old died. Eliza and I buried the oldest before she froze, must have been… twenty years ago? Twenty-five?”

     Mattie shifts on her feet. “Froze?” 

     Alexander frowns, sorrow he had grown to understand from his many plays weighing him down. He turns and gestures for them to follow him, retreating into the auditorium itself. Mattie follows after only a second of hesitation, and John shakes his head and starts along behind her.

     The stage is lit by a hole in the roof, weak sunlight streaming in to illuminate the figure standing in the center of the wooden platform. She looks like a massive doll, porcelain skin and beautiful dress, perfect red lips and flowing black hair. Alexander climbs the steps sidestage and lays a hand on her slim shoulder so delicately that John almost forgets it's not a human performing the gesture.

     “This is Eliza,” Alexander tells them softly. “My wife, if we were flesh and blood. Her gears got stuck, years ago. I haven't been able to fix her, her parts are too specialized. I can barely repair myself, with my crude mechanisms, much less her tiny parts.”

     Mattie sinks down in one of the theater's seats as he talks, and John does the same. He's numb, probably in shock, still waiting to wake up from this absurd dream. 

     Alexander seats himself on the edge of the stage, near his wife's feet, and leans forward. “But what's brought you two to this abandoned place?”

     “We're artists,” John replies hesitantly, after Mattie plants a firm elbow in his ribs. “Um, I paint, and she sculpts. But people want old art as well as new, so we wander forgotten places and salvage the works abandoned there.”

     Mattie opens her mouth to say something, then inhales sharply. “We were Paris, a while back. John, do you think-”

     His eyes widen. “The owl? Yeah, maybe. It doesn't work, but the parts might fit.”

     “Do you have one of George's pets?” Alexander asks suddenly, immediately knowing where this was going. “If it was one of the birds, the gears were the same type as Eliza’s. Oh, would you-”

     “I'll fetch it,” Mattie declares, standing. “I can't imagine if Jack got his sorry self stuck in place for decades. I'll be back.”

     She's out of the theater before either can say anything more, and John shakes his head fondly. Alexander raises an eyebrow, tiny plates shifting in his face as he does. “Are you two together? Married?”

     “Wh- um, no, not really. I mean, we tell innkeepers we are a lot of the time, but that's just because we can't afford two rooms. But we're friends,” John manages to fumble out. God, that was a disaster of an explanation. But thankfully enough, Alexander nods.

      There's another moment of silence, before Alexander takes a shaky breath. And yes, he breathes, John notices. He has to talk somehow. “I'm trying not to get my hopes up,” Alexander informs him softly. “But I don't- well. We'll see.”

       “Mattie, she idolizes Washington. And I think she still has that hope of being able to do things like he did. The chance to help one of his creations be whole again… she wouldn't miss it for the world, won't mess it up for the sun and the moon,” John replies. “Eliza’s in safe hands.”

       Alexander smiles nervously, and John returns the expression. After a quiet moment, Alexander tilts his head. “If you found one of Washington's birds in Paris… have you seen any others like us? Adrienne or Gilbert, perhaps?”

       John shrugs, thinking back to the ruined workshop they h(ad explored at the edge of the city. “Several paintings of a marble statue, but no, none like you.”

       “Adrienne, then,” Alexander says, more to himself than to John. He leans back, braces himself on his forearms. “My longest role, the one I became aware during… it was deeply emotional. I took my name from the character, actually. I played an orphan boy from a tiny village, poor but brilliant, and the narrative followed him from age nineteen to death. But as he achieved more and more, he kept losing people, and losing friends, and losing sight of what was most important. I feel like I'm back in that role.”

       John doesn't know what to say to that, so he stays quiet. Alexander seems content to keep it that way, and they sit in a comfortable silence for another few moments until Mattie arrives back with the mechanical owl.

       “Ah, Bubo,” Alexander says fondly as she holds it up to show them. “Long broken, but with the right parts to fix Betsey. Her favorite character’s name that she played,” he elaborates at John's raised eyebrow.

       Mattie sets Bubo the owl down gently at the edge of the stage, and turns to Alexander. “May I?” she asks lightly, gesturing towards where Eliza stands stiffly, unmoving.

       Alexander nods and mounts the stairs, pressing in a section of his chest to have a tiny drawer slide out. He gently brushes Eliza’s long locks aside and undoes the top two buttons of her gown, showing a panel that might be unlocked and swung aside, and he does so with a key pulled from his drawer-pocket-whatever.

      “No winding key?” Mattie asks, peering inside the revealed compartment.

      “George restructured us to be perpetual after he realized we were aware. Once our clockwork is started, it only stops with damage or a manual shutdown by another automaton- no-one else knows how. But once her parts are fixed, a spin of her shoulder wheel will get her started again.”

       John watches as Mattie nods and carefully begins her work,Alexander hovering anxiously alongside her. It's a task completed mostly in silence, the occasional question or correction the only times they speak, but eventually Mattie steps back and nods one final time. “She should be good to go now.” 

      They all stand with bated breath as Alexander slowly reaches out and turns Eliza’s shoulder mechanism, gears clicking into place and pistons creeping into new positions. He gently shuts the panel and redoes her dress, stepping in front of her just as she opens her eyes.

      Eliza looks up and beams, going to step towards him, but nearly falls. Alexander catches her, though, and she quickly rights herself, staring into his beautifully painted eyes. “Alexander,” she manages, and flings her arms around his shoulders.

      “My dearest Betsey,” he murmurs in reply, one hand curling in her hair protectively. “Oh, thank god you're back.”

      She reaches up and cups his face in one perfect, pale hand. “How long was I stuck off?”

      He leans into her touch, smiling more happily than any actual man John's ever met. “Too long. Years, Eliza,” Alexander adds rapidly, as she raises an eyebrow at him skeptically.

      “How'd you manage to restart me, then? I can't believe you've actually managed to repair someone.”

      Alexander, had he been flesh and blood, most likely would have flushed. “I didn’t. She did,” he replies, nodding over to Mattie.

      Eliza spins to face her, one hand still in clasped in Alexander’s as she studies the woman before her. “Thank you,” she tells her emphatically, her voice gentle and harmonious yet still dripping with emotion.

      “Of course,” Mattie replies, and John can see her fighting her blush. “Of course, a work of art as incredible as you deserves to be able to be whole.”

       The clockwork actress smiles and mimes a curtsy. “Please, I'm the one who ought to praise you for helping me. I wish we could be more hospitable to you, and your friend, but a crumbling theater is all we have to offer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dream should be edited and up by tomorrow night!!!!! Adjskdydbs I've been procrastinating again
> 
> BUT ALSO I SPENT ALL WEEK WRITING A [THING](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13444818%20) FOR ENGLISH SO PLEASE GO READ IT
> 
> my main tumblr: @discount-satan  
> my writing tumblr: @littlelionroar
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!!!


	18. Alright

    He stares out to the inky night for what feels like forever, something sharp and jagged in his chest as he gazes at the door. And he realizes it, then, and it feels like a dam breaking.

    His mother sees, and sighs sadly, and pulls him into a hug. “What's wrong, kiddo?”

   “Pa isn't coming back,” he murmurs. “Is he?”

    Mama sighs again. “Oh, sweetheart. No, he's probably not.”

    There's something damp on his face, and he distantly realizes that he's crying. “Why? What did I do? Why isn't he coming back?”

    “Listen to me, Alexander,” Mama says firmly, stepping to face him. Alex swipes at his eyes and looks at the floor. “It wasn't you, love. Or Jamie. Your father just isn't brave enough to stay. That has nothing to do with you. That isn't your fault. None of this is.”

    She pulls him into her arms. “Sometimes, the world isn't very nice. But you can't see the stars during the daytime, can you?”

    “No,” Alex hears himself admit.

    He feels her nod. “Well, then. You can't see light without dark.”

    “But I can't see anything light!” It falls off his lips before he can stop it, broken and hopeless, and his mama pats his back gently.

    “Then be the light, Alex.”

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://youtu.be/tDt6c2VME24
> 
> its short bc i was ugly sobbing to this song. cry with me.


	19. Rumor Has It

  The rumors that surround the newest couple on the block are plenty in number and wild in variation.

  The husband was an aide to Washington for much of the revolution, eventually receiving a longed-for field command at the decisive Battle of Yorktown. He all but collapsed in his wife's arms, they say, when he finally returned home, exhausted and hungry.

   The wife is not undistinguished, either- the second daughter of Philip Schuyler, she married the brilliant young aide after they met unofficially at Morristown, and publically at her family's winter ball. She had given birth barely three weeks after her husband had come home, and the midwife claimed he was there to help her through it.

  The servants won't gossip about them much, saying only that they're kind and a delightful young match.

   You see, the odd thing about the Hamiltons isn't who they are. It's how their curtains are nearly always drawn that attracts the attention of a street full of busybodies.

   The more outlandish claims from the ladies’ teas together are quickly dismissed- one of them is having an affair with the dashing young lieutenant-colonel recuperating from a serious injury at his closest friend’s home, that the somewhat reclusive couple are really vampires avoiding daylight, the husband is mad, the wife is so far from her family because of some dark secret- as utterly absurd.

    The rest- the husband is brilliant but odd, the wife has no care for being seen as either properly slim or curvaceous, the friend cares deeply for them both- are seen as either refuted or justified when the Hamiltons burst into society and politics, dragging their friend along with them.

    Alexander is brilliant and charming, if a tad obsessive with his ideas of a federal bank. Eliza is sweet and witty, despite not tying herself back into tight corsets the moment her pregnancy was over. And John Laurens is blazing and passionate, and many of the more abolitionary-minded found themselves drawn to him.

    The rumors rebounded and reworked themselves as time passed, especially when Laurens ended up buying the house just next door to the Hamiltons, and his daughter came over from England. They rewove and reoriented themselves as the Constitutional Convention came and went, as near a hundred essays turned up in the papers signed as Publius, as a constitutional lawyer took up one and only one divorce case before resuming his usual practice.

    But you know what they say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh i found this crawling thru my Drive and decided it wasn't too awful, here
> 
> main tumblr: @discount-satan  
> writing tumblr: @littlelionroar
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!!


	20. how heavy bear you the silence

   She's drifting almost aimlessly along one of the Grange's many long hallways when she hears it.

_ Un-deux-trois-quatre-cinq-six-sept-huit-neuf,  _ the light melody says. 

_ Un-deux-trois-quatre-cinq-six-sept-huit-neuf,  _ the harmony replies.

_ Sept-huit-neuf,  _ the higher calls.

_ Sept-huit-neuf, _ the lower responds, a perfect echo, a repeated line.

    A hesitation. “He always changes the line,” her daughter says softly.

    “I know,” her husband replies, voice impossibly steady, hands barely even shaking on the keys of the piano.

    Angelica frowns, her face pinching as she tries to remember why her brother won't play duets with her anymore. But then one of her parakeets chirps, and she rushes to go fuss over it.

    Alexander watches her go, and plays a sour clash of notes as he lets his hands fall. But after a moment he lifts them up and plays a single note, then another, slowly picking out a song she hasn't heard him play or sing in years.

    He plays it almost absentmindedly, the notes slow and lingering in the spring evening air. In the dim candlelight, his hair spilling over his shoulders and shoulders hunched, Eliza can almost mistake him for the man she fell in love with.

    The tune picks up suddenly, the melancholy beat abruptly jaunty and wild. It's a soldier's lament become a drinking song, that much she'd always known. But hearing it suddenly change from a slow and sorrowful word of caution to one fast and reckless- it's an attitude she recognizes too easily. 

    And it seems to be one Alexander does too, considering how one note lasts much longer than the verses before it, and the ending returns to its heavy, slow tempo. 

    Eliza almost steps forward into the parlor, then, him sitting frozen at the piano and her standing out in the hallway, but Alexander takes a shaking breath and watches their daughter petting her birds in the next room over. She laughs at something neither of them can see and steps out of view.

    He drops his elbows on the keys, and a dissonant chord sounds as he rests his face in his hands. But it's not an unfamiliar one, as out of tune and cluttered by others as it might be. No, no, it's one that brings memories of wine-soaked kisses and laughter rushing to the surface, and they both start as they realize it.

   Her husband hesitates, but leans back and finds the proper notes this time, a little clumsily but there nonetheless. He's certainly better at it than he had been when she'd taught him the song, if playing so softly and shyly she'd almost say he's afraid of her hearing.

   But play it he does, haltingly and a little brokenly but there nonetheless. It's not until there's a long enough pause does she realize that this is where she would play her high notes. It takes another long few seconds for her to realize that there are tears slipping down Alexander’s face.

    And she hesitates, yes, by all means. But after a moment, she takes the few steps into their parlor and sits down beside him, sets her hands on the keys and plays a gentle triplet up and down. 

   Her hand bumps into his, and he pulls it away. A glance at his expression- guilty, ashamed, quickly closing off- tells her all she needs to know. It's not a commentary on her; it's him trying to get out of her way, to apologise before she can say a word.

   She takes his hand.

   He'd looked away, avoided her gaze, but now his head whips up. “Eliza-”

   She smiles softly, squeezes his hand. “It's too quiet uptown.”

   Faintly, she realizes there are tears slipping down her cheeks, but Alexander is wide-eyed and his hand trembles in hers. And she's  _ looked _ at him so often, but somehow it's been so long since she's actually  _ seen _ him that it's a surprise to her just how much his smile lines have faded, how many grey streaks there are in his hair.

   He squeezes her hand back, softly and hesitantly and almost pulling away on instinct.

   Eliza pulls him into a hug, and he stiffens in surprise. But then he wraps his arms around her, and buries his face in her shoulder.

   They're clinging to each other for a long, breathless moment. And now, in some twist of fate, Eliza is the one to curl her fingers in Alexander's hair and say softly, “I love you.”

   She feels another tear fall, and hears a cracked, “I love you too, Betsey.”

   For once, for the first time in years, there's not an attempted apology that he stumbles over, not stilted conversation for the benefit of someone else, not her pushing him away. Just them.

   And that's enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one of the few pieces of my own writing that I've cried over
> 
> tumblr: @discount-satan  
> writing tumblr: @littlelionroar
> 
>  
> 
> ALEXANDER AND ELIZA ARE MY NEW PARENTS BECAUSE THEY ACTUALLY CARE FOR EACH OTHER AND TRY TO WORK THROUGH THEIR PROBLEMS OK BYE


	21. waiting for you

    “Do you love me?” Alexander asks, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Or do you hate me?”

    John’s still, silent, emotionless.

    “God, Jack, say something! Tell me you're sorry, tell me you're not, anything! Don't just stand there and say nothing at all!” His voice breaks, dragging him from screaming to pleading to sobbing. “Please don't say nothing at all.”

    John looks at him, blank and quiet and expressionless, and walks away without a word.

    Alexander barely keeps himself from crumpling to the ground, a strangled cry caught in his throat. “It's been so long,” he calls after him, not even caring how hoarse his voice gets. “And I missed you for every damn second! Every last moment, and I think, what would you say? What would you do? And where does that leave me?”

    He keeps walking.

    “Everything I do, I do for you, asshole! Palaces of paragraphs, cathedrals- for you!”

    The door shuts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you don't know, now you know, Mr. President. Not the best way to put it, I'm sure, but I never claimed to be savvy when it comes to these things.


End file.
